John's Novelization
by artisticRadifyer
Summary: POV: John. Unfinished/barely started.


**I remember starting this about the time I published chapter one of Chosen of the Wind. Look how far its gotten. Bleghk.**

John's POV

Novelization of the Webcomic

2nd POV

Follow the comic

Probably every Act can be a chapter.

Even if they take forever.

Act 5 and any other likewise segments without John Egbert will be skipped. Direct dialogue from the website is in bold. Any knowledge that is to be known throughout the story shall not be however.

Act 1

It is your birthday: April thirteenth, thirteen years ago, you took your first breath. You call yourself a derogatory name somewhere along the lines of a zoo-smell[ing] pooplord for the fact that you think to yourself, and you correct yourself by flashing your own name across your mind: John Egbert.

Your room is depicted as follows, since you will only allow yourself to survey it once today: Scattered with cakes, numerous posters of critically called terrible movies, and a few merchandise for the SBurb Beta you bought in anticipating glee. Your bed is in one corner and the desk and computer is in the other opposite it. There is a sort of 'stuff' chest (rather than a toy chest for children) with a magician's theme painted onto it in another, and the last corner has something akin to a small dresser, but smaller-closer to the size of a night stand. There are two windows: one in between the bed and chest, and another in between the computer and chest. The closet with most of his clothes and other items of the unmentionably boring are in between the 'night dresser' and the desk.

You find yourself wondering what happened to the arms you thought you had on your person. You go to look in the night dresser first, but your mind suddenly supplies you with the location and you feel stupid for even considering the too small location as a place they could be located at all. The derogatory name flits by in your mind with the mental beratement. You go to the magic chest, where all of your more regularly used things that don't live out in the open go. That is to say, all of the things you use as an aspiring amature magician.

After you manipulate the space around you to store away the arms for an idea you are sure you'll have later in your sylladex, you reason with yourself that an analysis of something requires all it includes; thus you examine the chest's contents. The other artifacts besides the arms are: one pair of trick handcuffs, one stunt sword, one magician's hat, one pair of beagle puss glasses, several smoke pellets, several blood capsules, and one copy of Colonel Sassacre's Daunting Text of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery, and one copy of Harry Anderson's "Wise Guy", by Mike Caveney. You think grabbing the smoke pellets will prove some merit for later, and store them as well; leaving two cards left.

You gain an idea to use the arms for an amusing sight, but the smoke pellets you have stacked on top of the arms hinder you from accessing them in any way relevant to using them in an equip fashion. Since your sylladex's fetch modus is set to a stack data structure, this means you can only use the top card: causing a first-in, first-out method to work with. The concept still confuses you, even after trying to use it for years. You have tried many different strategies, but the methods never work out for all the puzzling situations you find yourself in need of the things in your sylladex; causing you to have no strategy other than wing it most of the time. It is a mildly irritat[ed] you who has to deal with this modus all day, everyday. You can only hope to find a new and different structure one day. Regardless, there is no need to make the room lousy with smoke and you have to concede defeat in this moment of time.

You look at the note on your night dresser once more, where it reads: HAPPY BIRTHDAY SON. I AM SO PROUD OF YOU. It greatly helps your confidence in the relationship you and your dad have, what with the intense prank war the two of you have been engaging in. He also somehow is able to strangely make all of his notes smell like aftershave and cologne. You, being the less experienced in a war of any kind, have been both dreading and anticipating this day: a day your dad said he would make all other pranks seem like a candle compared to the fire he will be bringing.

This means you have been debating on whether to actually open the cylinder it came with most of the morning, and suddenly decide to throw caution to the wind and see if it is an actual present or not. The package contained a poster of some affiliation, and unrolling it showed a smile making its way onto his face.


End file.
